Delaware Grammy

Last year, Certain Man was so busy working on
Middle Daughter’s library and balcony
that the garden got away from him like it has NEVER done before.  
This year, he is back to his usual form,
and the garden is by far the best it has ever been!

Tomatoes, carrots, yellow squash,
green beans, potatoes, peppers and cabbage.
Oh, and that’s the faithful gardener there,
looking for potato bugs, and thinning his carrots.

 

Pole limas, onions, ground cherries–
 and where you cannot see,
 there is asparagus and butternut squash and rhubarb.

 

This is the solitary cucumber plant that resides
in Certain Man’s Garden.
Evidence, again, of a grandpa’s love for his grandbaby.
Our Charis-girlie loves the garden,
eating baby carrots, dirt and all,
helping to dump compost into the holes that are ready for plants,
 and pulling up radishes just for the delight of it.  
This particular little girlie LOVES cucumbers.
Daniel HATES them.
They give him heartburn and he avoids them like the plague.  
But he planted a cucumber for Charis
so that she can have the joy of picking her very own cucumbers
and eating them straight out of the patch.  
And he heard that you can train them to climb a lattice,
so he is giving that a try.
 It’s doing great!  
If I think of it, I will show you a picture when it has cucumbers on it. 

 

Sometimes life is just plain complicated.

And disappointing.

And difficult.

And the people in it are that way, too.

But I don’t have to look at it that way.

This is one of those days when I would really like to cry for how things turned out.  And I am so tempted to BLAME.

(Which doesn’t help anything, really.)

My extended family gets together for breakfast on occasion.  Like once a month.  And it’s always on Saturday morning, and I have gotten there — well, maybe three times over the last few years.  I always love it, and I’m always glad that I went when I go, but Saturday mornings are complicated for me.  It is the morning that both my ladies get their “bone pill” for osteoporosis.  And it has to be given with time lapses and careful attention to other meds.  One of my ladies has two more pills that have to be taken with a time lapse before she can eat anything, so that means that I have about an hour and a half when I need to be present and cognitive on a Saturday morning.  Every other Saturday morning is bed changing day, and with the extra protective pads and pillows, that takes extra time.  Saturday morning also is the only morning that I can sleep a little bit later since there are no buses and work schedules for Daniel and Church to get to, etc.  So usually, I think about the family meeting over there in Harrington and sigh a little wistfully, and then go about my business here and try not to think about it any more.

But today, Uncle Paul and my cousin, Dan, from Virginia came up to go to breakfast.  Some of my other cousins were coming, too, and that made me really want to go.  Daniel and I had toyed with the idea of having everyone from the family that could make it come here last night for a cookout, but it just seemed like it wouldn’t work.  Our church was helping someone move, plus our children were all in Delaware.  Raph and Gina had come in on Thursday evening to spend some time with us and with old friends.  Lem and Jess were home for Jessica’s brother’s wedding, and Rachel is home for the summer.  I didn’t know all the plans for the kids, but I did know that Daniel had promised weeks ago to help Jimmy and Emma move, and so that pretty much precluded inviting the family here.  Also, as I may detail in another post, things haven’t gone as predicted with my post surgical recovery, so I cannot predict what my energy level will be at a given time.  I decided that I would not invite anyone here for the evening, but would try to get to Harrington for the breakfast.

Last night, when Daniel and I were setting alarm clocks for this morning, I said, “I wonder if I might not want to sleep more than go to breakfast in the morning . . .”  but set it anyhow.  We had decided that we weren’t going to plan for an “immediate family” brunch this morning because of the uncertainty of various family member’s plans, and I was pretty sure that I could go to Harrington and get home before the people who were here would be ready for breakfast.

This morning, when I was getting awake, I looked at the clock and thought that I would have plenty of time to go.  And so I stripped the sheets off my bed, and carried them down and began the morning.  Daniel was sleeping in his chair, and Deborah hadn’t put in her appearance.  Rachel was still in Pennsylvania, since the weather had convinced her that she should just stay put for the night.  She thought she would be home around 9:30.  I had no idea when Raph and Gina had gotten in, but I had stopped and knocked on their door and told them that family brunch was off, and they should sleep as long as they wanted to.  I would fix something when everyone got awake.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that unless someone helped me, I wasn’t going to get done in time to go to the breakfast.  I flew through getting sheets off the beds, into the washer, ladies medicated, gave Cecilia her shower and got her dressed and got the beds made up.  I got Cecilia her breakfast and took care of the various morning chores. I looked across the room at my sleeping husband and wished that Deborah would get up and help me.  I wished that Daniel would get awake and maybe go and call her to come help.  I wished that he would ask if there was something he could do so that I could go.  And I felt sorry for myself as the minutes ticked away and nothing happened.

When 8:15 came and went, I gave up the hope of going.  I knew in my heart that all I had to do was ask, but sometimes, selfishly, pridefully, I want the things that I want to do to be important enough to my family that they offer.    I know, I KNOW!  They are only human.  And I had said that business to Daniel about wanting to sleep.  Plus, I knew that he wanted to go out to the festival at Greenwood Mennonite School as soon as he could get away.  (There were oyster fritter sandwiches and homemade ice cream to be had!)  Deborah had cleaned the kitchen for me the night before, and she wanted to go to the festival, too.  Rachel was coming home,  but she was bringing some friends, and they wanted to go to the festival and then to the beach, for the afternoon.  

And so, I went over it and over it my heart and tried to not be cross and resentful.  I kept telling myself that it really was my own fault.  All I would have had to do was set my alarm a half an hour earlier, planned my time a little bit better, and it would have been clear sailing.  I thought I was handling it really well until, along about 9:15.  Daniel, now awake, asked me what was happening, wasn’t I going to my family breakfast?  That made me suddenly sad to the bottom of my selfish heart, and I wanted to cry and cry.  I kept telling myself that I could respond with grace – that wallowing around in tears wasn’t going to help, but it felt unhelpful and unbelievable to me.  So I didn’t answer, just busied myself with the things at hand and asked God to open my eyes to the blessings of the moment.  Oh, I shed some tears, but I also realized that most of this was my own fault.

I could have planned better.  Nothing beats setting an alarm clock so there is “plenty of time” instead of “just enough.”  I could have asked for help the night before.  Rachel told me that she would have been home earlier if she had known I needed help.  I could have asked for help this morning.  Deborah would have come down and finished the ladies if I had gone upstairs and asked her.  And Daniel would have helped, too, in any way possible, if I had just mentioned it.  It was that old, “Sometimes, I want the things that I want to do to be important enough to my family that they offer” business.  But they can’t know what I really want if I don’t tell them.

And then it’s imperative to look at the blessings that being home brought me.  Raph and Gina didn’t sleep in.  Gina wasn’t feeling well, and they got up and came down far earlier than anticipated.  Because she was feeling so wretched, it gave me a chance to care for her in a way that I am usually unable to. Rachel and her friends came in and I really like to be here when one of our kids comes home — especially if it is the middle of the day.  Then we decided to make some baked oatmeal for those that were here, and suddenly it grew to include extra precious people – one of which I hadn’t seen in years.  I looked around the breakfast table and saw some of my family that is pretty much ALWAYS here, some of my family that is often here, some of my family who is almost never here, and friends who are almost like family and some friends who I see so seldom it was like a precious gift, and decided that the trade-off was worth it.

I’ve been thinking about that old praise song that starts:
“I’m trading my sorrows 
and I’m trading my shame,
and I’m laying it down for the joy of the Lord.

I’m trading my sickness,
I’m trading my pain,
I’m laying it down for the joy of the Lord.”

I’ve never particularly liked the song because the Chorus is an unending repetition of “Yes, Lord, Yes Lord, Yes, yes, Lord . . . ” until it seems tiring to an old traditionalist like me.  But it occurs to me that to trade my sorrow, pain, resentment, blame and anything that destroys the joy of the Lord, the answer lies in a never ending litany of “Yes, Lord.”

Yes, Lord.  Yes!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

 

I was traveling the familiar road between Greenwood and Milford today.  It is a road that is as familiar to me as almost any road in the entire world.  I live on this road, for one thing.  For another, it was the road that connected my childhood home with THE CITY as we knew it.  Any real shopping, grocery or otherwise,  was always done in Milford.  My paternal grandparents lived in Milford.  It was a road well traveled.

Close to one end of the ten mile stretch is the Greenwood Mennonite Church.  We called it “The Brick Church” when I was a little girl.  And my Grandpa Yoder referred to that final couple miles as “Molasses Street” because it had so many Mennonites on it.  My family history lies rich in those miles, with great aunts and uncles, and even my Great Grandfather Val Bender’s house, along that stretch.  Uncle Eli and Aunt Amelia Swartzentruber, Uncle Milt and Aunt Savannah Swartzentruber, (living in the old Church/School House that had been converted into a home) Uncle Nevin and Aunt Esther Bender, Uncle Ted and Aunt Pauline Beachy, Uncle Eli and Aunt Lucy Schrock. Their houses lined the road in intervals along the way, and sometimes, my Daddy’s cousins and my second cousins would settle on family lands on either sides.

Along the way, there was a small settlement that we called “Staytonsville.”  It had a little store, and across the field were the rickety shacks of what we knew as a “Migrant Camp.”  My Daddy had a special interest in the camp, and for a while held Sunday School there.  I remember going along with him as a child, and being in awe of the poverty and dirt and the dark skinned faces of the children.  Life there was so transitory, because the migrant workers followed the harvest, wherever it would take them.  It was usually abandoned by autumn, though I do remember smoke coming out of the smokestacks at least one winter.  Sometimes when I go through the intersection that we still know as Staytonsville, I look across those empty fields and remember that camp and wonder where the children are who once were there.   

Somewhere in the middle is a section that we call “Holly Swamp.”  When I was a child, it was a thickly wooded area where the trees on either side spread their branches across the road and made a long green tunnel in the summer time.  It looked mysterious and beautiful and majestic.  It was one of my favorite parts of the road.  The years have changed that segment, and houses have sprung up in the woods, the woodland has been timbered out, and the changes have stolen the charm somewhat.  It still has some beautiful spots, and some of the houses are pretty, but by and large, it doesn’t begin to have the enchantment.

Just before entering the area that we knew as “Holly Swamp” there is a long, sweeping bend in the road.  This is the bend in the road that is a special Point of Grace for this Sussex County Gal.

It was the spring of 1973.  I was nineteen years old, just months from our summer wedding, and working in Milford for Dr. and Mrs. Crabb and their four young children.  Fran was in the final months of her life, holding onto the little things of life with all her might, enjoying and loving her children and her pets with the urgency of the dying, and taking up the sadness for all the injustices of the world. Into this mix came a litter of abandoned kittens, sending Frannie into a cataclysm of worry and sorrow.  She already had two dogs and a passel of cats in the house, most of whom were not really housebroken.  They had a new house, and the animals were seriously leaving their marks in destructive ways.  As much as Dr. Crabb loved her, he refused to allow the kittens to stay.  She had to find a home for them somehow, somewhere, someway.  But not some day.  It had to be pretty much immediately.

She was worried, and sad, and she told me the whole sordid tale when I came to work one morning.  I immediately told her that I thought we could take the kittens.  They would be barn cats, but that wouldn’t matter, they would at least have shelter and food.  Fran eagerly accepted my offer, and when I left that afternoon, we loaded them up into a cardboard box and put it on the floor of my little Volkswagen beetle.  She put a warm shirt in the box to comfort them while they were journeying, and I set out.

Things went pretty well for a few miles.  The kittens cowered on the bottom of the box, adjusting to their strange surroundings, and then one of them decided that he really didn’t like it a bit.  He leaped up onto the seat and clawed his way around.  I was on a fairly straight stretch of road right then (for you locals, the stretch just before Blacksmith Shop Road) so I kinda’ put him back down into the box and threw the shirt over him.  Suddenly, I saw that he had crawled into the sleeve and it was a really tight pinch.  I worried about him, thinking of how I was going to explain to Mrs. Crabb if he smothered on the way home, so I reached down and picked up the shirt and tried to shake him out of the sleeve.  He was not to be dislodged, so I shook the shirt harder.  I thought I was watching the road very closely well, at least somewhat, but suddenly, two things happened that imprinted themselves forever in my memory.

The first thing was that I heard some strange bumps under my car and I looked up just in time to see the front of my Volkswagen plow into the road sign that marked the curve for the opposite side of the road.  Mowed it right down. I had just crossed over the line of oncoming traffic and the shoulder and was sitting in the grass along the left hand side of the road.

The second thing happened at almost exactly the same time.  There was this whooshing sound as a big step van went past just a few feet from where my Volkswagen had stopped.  It had “Elvin Schrock and Sons Plumbing” on the side, and I saw the frightened face of either Merlin or Marlin looking out the window at me like they couldn’t quite believe their eyes.  It was exactly at the place where my car had crossed the line of oncoming traffic and somehow, the angels had seen fit to carry me safely over that busy lane of traffic onto the grass with the only damage being a slight dent in my front bumper from hitting that sign that was on a single stake.

It is said that the young feel invincible.  That may be true, but at that minute I felt anything but invincible.  I thought about all the possibilities — not the least of which was what happens to the passenger in an old style Volkswagen when that empty front end hits a big old step van head on at 55 miles an hour.  I’m pretty sure those kittens wouldn’t have survived. 

(Ahem!) 

Actually, I knew that I would not have.  I don’t know how long I sat there, but I was incredibly shaken.  Eventually, I put my car in reverse, backed off the sign, and waited for a break in the traffic, then got back on my side of the road and headed through Holly Swamp towards home.

I am not exaggerating a single bit when I say that this experience literally changed life perspective for me on many fronts.  I decided that I must have been spared for a reason, that God could have taken me straight home that day if that had been His will.  I definitely felt like there was divine intervention that day, not because I was good, or because I was living right or any of those things.  I felt like God had something for me to do.  Not big and grand and mighty and glorious, but that I was to live purposefully,  with enthusiasm and gratefulness.

I don’t think about it every time I go around that corner, but more times than not, I do.  I try to never miss a chance to thank God for allowing me to live, to have the life I’ve had.  And I try to remember that all of life is a sacred trust.  None of us knows about tomorrow.  And until the LORD comes back to take His Church Home, none of us will get out of here alive.  Our times are truly in HIS Hands, and He does all things well.  Even choosing the length of our days. 

Oh, yeah.  Another thing.  I learned that that there is no substitute for keeping your eyes on the road.  You shouldn’t make your Guardian Angel work too much overtime.

 

The voice and the request and variations on the request were all too familiar.

“Do you think you could help me out with my electric bill?  It’s $292.00 and they’re gonna’ turn it off.  I got my check, but I had to pay my car insurance ’cause I cain’t let that go, and I cain’t pay the electric bill and the insurance, both.”

“You don’t have any money for it all?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“No.  None.  But we’ll pay you back.  I promise.  I can pay $24.00 a month until it is all paid off.  You’ll get your money.  We’ll pay you back.”

“But, Dawn, that will take you over a year at $24.00 a month . . .”

“Well, then, we could maybe pay you $30.00.  Or whatever we could afford.  We’ll pay you what we can afford.”

“I can’t tell you what Mr. Daniel will say,” I said to her.  “He is the one who makes these decisions.  I will talk to him and let you know.  I should tell you, though, that I don’t think he is going to be willing to pay all of it.  When is it due?”

“Not until the 23rd.  But I like to get on these things before the last minute.”

“That does give us some time, though, and I appreciate you not waiting until the last minute.  I will talk to Mr. Daniel and see what he has to say.

She was quiet, then, not making promises any more, and the conversation soon ended.

I talked to Daniel.  As deacon at our church, he has been inundated with requests this month for food and diapers and electric bills and almost anything people can think of.  There are just a lot of needy, desperate people right now.

“Can they come up with any of it all?” was his first response when I told him about this request.  It involves “Our Kids” so it sits a whole lot closer to our hearts.  What will happen if they turn off the electric?

“I don’t know,” I said, but hastened to add, “I sometimes think that she asks early so that if she happens to have any extra money, she can go ahead and spend it and doesn’t have to save it for the electric bill.”

He pondered things awhile, then said, “They are going to have to come up with part of it.  They need to at least be responsible for half of it.”

So I told her the next time that I talked to her that we would pay half, and that she needed to be trying to come up with the rest of it.  I could tell she wasn’t happy about it at all, but it is one of the things that has brought so much peace into my life — to remember that God didn’t make me the deacon, and when Daniel feels that something is the way it ought to be, it is just far better to do it his way than any other.  Besides, it gives me someone to blame it on.  (UH-HUH!  I am like that!)

They came last night — all of them piled into the vehicle so that mama could pick up the check.  She came in and watched as I wrote it out for half.  I made it out to the electric company, noted the account name on the memo line, and handed it to her. 

She looked it over, then said,”Do you think the Electric Company will turn it off if this is all I can give them?  It’s a deferred payment and all that I’m behind in.  Do you think they will accept this?”

“I don’t know, Dawn.  I know the City of Milford Electric is sometimes pretty unreasonable, but I don’t really know what your agreement is, so I really can’t say what they will do.  You weren’t able to come up with anything for the rest of the bill?”

“No, nothing.”

I felt terrible, but I also had this strong feeling that we were not to bail her out.  So I hardened my heart and I said, “Well, Dawn.  You are going to have to figure this out.  I guess you will have to take in what you have and see what they have to say.  Mr. Daniel said ‘half’ and I need to do what he says.”

She looked stricken, but headed for the door.

“I want to come out and see the kids.”

She didn’t say anything, so I followed her out.  I was tired last night, and wasn’t feeling the best, but I poked my head up against the four inch window opening and tried to talk to the kids.  But I couldn’t totally miss the exchange going on in the front seat.

“No.”  I heard Dawn say.  “NO, she didn’t.”

Seneca made a protest noise in his throat and Dawn shook her head at him with pursed lips.  He made another comment under his breath and she again shook her head.

“I don’t know.  We’ll talk about it later,” she said grimly.  The kids weren’t paying any attention to me.  The were somber, watching the adults, and almost unable to respond to my questions at all. 

I decided that I felt bad enough and that the discussion wasn’t beneficial to any of us, so I bid everyone goodnight, told the kids that I loved them and went back to the house.

The phone rang this evening and I saw it was from them.  I almost didn’t answer it, but decided that I had better.

“Ms. Mary Ann, I wanted to tell you what happened with the electric bill and everything.”  There was an unfamiliar tenor to this voice.  “Last night, I didn’t know what to do, so I prayed and prayed.  I just took my Bible and went into my room.  I wasn’t being ignorant or anything, I just needed to be alone.  And I prayed and prayed.  I kept telling God that I didn’t know what to do.  And then, this morning, there was a knock at my door.  Two years ago, someone I worked for borrowed a hundred and twenty dollars from me, and they paid it back!  I didn’t think I was ever going to get it, but they came this morning and paid it back.  With what the church gave and what I had, it covered the electric bill!”  She was so excited she could hardly contain herself.

“Dawn,” I said, when I could finally get a word in edgewise, “this is the stuff that you really need to be sharing with your children.  When God answers prayer like this, it is the way that children’s faith grows.  You need to be sure to tell them this story.”

“Oh, I know,” she said.  “I tell them all the time that prayer changes things and that we need to pray about things.”

“Also, Dawn,” I said.  “I want you to think about something else.  If Mr. Daniel had given you the money for the whole electric bill last night, you would have missed this excellent provision of the LORD.  If it had been up to me, I would probably have thought we should give it, but he felt so strongly that we should not, and he was right!  This gave God the opportunity to provide for you and your family in a special way.  This is so wonderful!”

Did she grasp it?  I don’t know.  But I do know this.  I have an even deeper respect for the things that God impresses on my husband’s heart when it comes to things like this.  It has happened often enough that you would think I would have learned by now to just trust him.  Maybe this lesson was as much for me as it was for Dawn and her family. 

Whatever.  I just know that it “sets the joy-bells ringing in my heart!”

Today is a bittersweet day for this mama.  Deborah is making the family’s bread for the first time ever.  I began baking bread for my family when I was pregnant with Deborah, and have been making it ever since (except when I was very pregnant with the ensuing babiesand my husband ordered temporary reprieve).  This morning, I brought up the very last loaf of the batch I made just before surgery so I could pack a lunch.  Daniel said that I could not bake — yet.  Beebs has been saying that she wants to learn, and so, we decided that there was no time like the present.  She has done everything herself (with verbal instructions) and I am so proud of her.  Three little girlies whose daddy is doing some work in our trailer came to watch and “help.”  Here the oldest (who was, by far, the most interested) is being her usual engaging self

.

Not going to comment on everything —
But for the most part,
this is a sweet day at Shady Acres.

A few weeks ago, before surgery, I purchased this hanging fuchsia from my favorite greenhouse:

I have been so happy with it, as it promises to be an attractive and prolifically blooming addition to the front of our garage.
I placed it between the two doors, and have watered it faithfully.

About a week ago, I thought it looked like there was something strange in the top of it, and I put my hand in there and came up with an egg.  I quickly but it back, and came in to try to find out what kind of bird it was.  I thought it might be a Carolina Wren, but I wasn’t certain.  When I called Daniel to tell him that I had picked an egg out of the planter, he was not very happy.  He loves the different nesting birds around Shady Acres and he was quite certain that if I had touched the egg, the mama bird would not come back.  I didn’t want the bird in that particular location because watering the plant was going to be a problem with a nest in the top of it.  I waited a couple of days, and decided to gently take the planter down to look at what was happening.  When I lifted it off the hook, a very startled Mama Wren took off, and inside, I found four eggs.

I cut a slit in the side of the bag so I could water without disturbing her, and it seems to be working out okay.  She stays put through almost anything–
(Except a camera appearing over the edge!)

This makes me so happy!

 

 

 

Youngest daughter,  Rachel, with the mother of my “Faraway Daughter” Yajaira Ruiz.  Hortencia came this morning with egg and sausage — a Mexican dish that Rachel loves.  She also brought cheese tortillas.  She laughed and hugged Rachel, and wiped tears, and hugged Rachel, chatted brightly with Deborah and Rach, and sometimes turned to wipe those tears, and then went away.  I thought about the fact that it has been over four years since she could hug her Youngest Daughter, and now, I’m crying, too.  I could almost promise you that there are tears falling in that trailer across the lane where a Mama, who loves her girlie as much as I love mine, is once again reminded that immigration (and its complications) is far more than a legal issue.

Ah, my Lupe-girl.  How very much your family has paid for choices made — not only BY them, but FOR them.

 

What is left of last night’s super moon.
(I REALLY wish I could have seen it last night.)

But Wow!  It’s the kind of night that looks all sparkly outside!

I’m concerned that this business of sleeping in, sitting around and taking it easy could become habit forming.   I have never taken things so easy in my life.  I really, truly do feel like I’m in the recovery time for giving birth, but there is no baby to take care of, no older children to look after.  Nothing that I HAVE to do.  And while it is nice to be able to take things easy, it is also a bit disconcerting.  I think I get this antsy feeling honestly.  My parental families have this thing about “being a burden.”  And even though my family has been so incredibly gracious, I do feel like a burden here.

I have been so blessed!  Tasty, wonderful food, unexpected visitors, people filling in for me.  It seems like every day has brought surprises that delight and encourage.

Before I ever left the hospital, my sisters brought me this basket of Calla Lilies,
Three different colors:

Exquisitely elegant, and one of the things I have never invested in for myself–
(but often wanted!)
I was so tickled, because I can plant them outside and they should come back every year.
My sisters know me better than probably anyone else outside my husband, kids and Mama.
When they visited me on Saturday afternoon, it did more for my recovery than anything else.
Sarah and Alma — You are the best!

 

On Monday, My cousin, Donna, stopped by with a window box
From the Ladies at our church.
She was worried that I would have maybe wanted cut flowers.
I would a thousand times rather have a window box over cut flowers!
This was so perfect!

I already found a place for them on my deck railing
outside the window that I can see from my chair.
It probably won’t stay there,
since Certain Man pointed out that it blocks the view of the bird feeder–
but it can go one side or the other, and I can still see it.
So incredibly cheery with the white and red and green.
Thank you, so much, dear friends!  And the suppers brought by Ilva and Loretta, and the cookies from Emma —
Plus errands run and encouraging words, — Well, you gals are wonderful friends!

And then today, by UPS, no less, I got a delivery from a California plant company.
There were strict instructions for the box to be upright, and all was carefully packaged–
Again, such a special gift — a new houseplant.
(I do love me some houseplants!)
This one came as a gift from my sisters in law, Lena (from California)
and Rachel (from New York).

I set it there beside the family picture of Certain Man’s family —
Before the youngest sister, Ruth, was born,
Before his mother, Katie’s untimely death–
And then, in 1981, his brother, Joseph, went in a truck accident,
And in 2010, His father, Ralph, also left us for Heaven’s Shores.
The only three in that picture who are living today are
Lena, Rachel, and Daniel.
Today, I look at the beautiful flowers, look at those faces,
And I’m so grateful for all that God has given me in Daniel and his family.

There is one more flower that cheers me in these days of recovery.

Last Fall, I brought home a piece of a plant from my Sweet Mama’s house.
I stuck it into some water, treated the base of the piece with some root toning stuff–
And it took off.
I have never seen such gorgeous leaves, and it blooms almost constantly.

It reminds me of my Mama and her flowers
and how she would grow things on the kitchen windowsill.
I had a terrible time growing anything when I was first married.
Daniel’s grandmother, Florence Yutzy, would sometimes come into my house
And surreptitiously slip her finger into the tops of the containers of African Violets
And usually, she found them dry.
I would always be repentant and try to reassure her that I would try harder.
But she was so gracious to me, and she would say,
“Now, Mary Ann!  Don’t you worry about that.  Someday you will grow flowers.
Right now you are growing children, and that is more important!”

She didn’t live long enough to see that I have, indeed, grown flowers
In these years since my children are grown. 
She would have especially loved this flower, and would have exclaimed over it.
(Probably wanted a “slip” to start one of her own.)

So, Mama, this flower is a reminder to me of you and your love for beauty
and your knack with growing things. 
Houseplants will always be a part of the legacy you’ve left for me.
And Grandma Florence — Thanks for not giving up on a young, inexperienced
mama and for encouraging her to grow children while the time was right —
But also for giving me a hope for the “someday” that has somehow become NOW.

“Lord Jesus, I give grateful praise . . . “

 

It’s been a hard couple of days for Certain Man’s Wife.  I have been so sick and tired of having things go “wrong” with me that I haven’t made much comment about the challenges currently on my radar screen.  Even the thought that I am closer to 60 than I am to 55 doesn’t impress itself on me as being old enough for some of the indignities that I’ve been experiencing.  And even though, in my head, I KNOW that this body wasn’t made to last forever, I still need to sometimes call that to remembrance, and decide what I can live with and what I need to get fixed.

So it was that last fall, I had pretty much decided to bite the bullet and get some reconstruction surgery done.  But then they found some suspicious lumps in my routine mammogram and I decided to wait until that was resolved to pursue anything else.  Two ultrasounds, four months apart, determined that that the lumps were “just the way you are, Mrs. Yutzy.  Nothing to worry about in that department” and I was a free woman.  At least on that score. So, I returned to Dr. Killeen and we decided to go ahead with the surgical repair that I needed.  We scheduled it for Friday, April 27, 2012. 

Of course, I needed to get blood work done first.  About two weeks ago, I set out on a nice morning to get that done.  I got a really early start because I needed to register Rachel for some summer classes at Del Tech. Then I needed to pick up a part for Daniel’s mower somewhere between Georgetown and Millsboro.  Then I planned to go into the Beebe express lab and get my fasting blood work done.  When I called to find out where they were located in Georgetown, they informed me that they didn’t do EKG’s at that location, and I HAD to have one before surgery.  So I trucked my way over to Lewes from Georgetown, and (of course!) couldn’t find a place to park in the parking lot.  I proceeded around to the parking garage and finally found a spot there, but neglected to note which floor I was on.  It was terribly far to the other side of the hospital where the lab is, but I persevered with great endurance.  Eventually all the surgical prerequisites were completed and I got some crackers and water to help me make the journey back.  I trudged through the labyrinth of Old Beebe, and finally found my way over to the garage and took the elevator to the third floor where I thought I had left my van. 

I stepped out of the elevator and realized that my familiar white mini-van was nowhere to be seen.  Wrong floor!  The door had swung shut on the elevator, but I dashed back and pushed the button.  It promptly opened!  I scurried to to get back in, caught my toe on the threshold, lost my balance and crashed down onto the floor of the elevator with a great noise.  I was so insulted!  I almost never fall since I’ve had my knees replaced and I hate the reputation that I “fall a lot!” (which some people think I do, even though I don’t!)  I landed hard on my right hip, smacking my hands pretty hard, too, on that cold, hard floor. Of course, my first thought was “Is anybody watching???”  and I poked my head up and looked all about and nary a soul was anywhere. I pulled my feet the rest of the way into the elevator, and allowed the door to close.   And then, of course, I assessed the damage, and determined that I was, in fact, unscathed in any noticeable way.  I picked myself off the floor — actually, kinda’ hoisted my discombobulated self up, pressed the right button and finally got out on the right level and fled to the comfort of my trusty mini-van. 

This was when I really wanted to cry.  My hip was aching, and, to be perfectly honest, I really didn’t want to have this surgery.  It sounded so — well, — unpleasant.  Uncomfortable.  And it was the sort of thing that was private.  I couldn’t just stand up in church and ask for people to pray for me without having to explain, and even while some people wouldn’t mind, I wasn’t “some people.”  My Mama didn’t raise me to share such details with everyone.  I sat there in the parking garage, blinking back the tears and giving myself a stern talking to.  It was okay to not like it, but I really needed to focus on the positives.  Wallowing around in the muck of self pity wasn’t going to help anyone in the least, or me in the most.

And so, I set my resolve on getting this done with the least amount of complaining and I also decided to just not think about it.  I prayed for courage, I prayed for peace and I prayed for things to go better than expected and I prayed for my surgeon.  And the days just kept flying by.  Almost before I knew it, it was Thursday night, and the surgery was for the next day.

I guess this might be the place to fill in some of the background information as to why I needed the surgery.

Actually, I had a hysterectomy when I was 40.  When our oldest son, Raphael was born, I went from being dilated three centimeters to delivered in ten minutes in the labor room bed.  He weighed in at nine pounds and twelve ounces, and they held up this beautiful, chubby baby and my heart could not really assimilate what I saw.  I never knew a baby could be so blue.  What I remember most of all was seeing the cord wrapped tightly around his neck twice, and then going down, under both arms, around his chest.  It was a triple cord wind.  Those were the days when we were all trying our best to be “natural” and they hadn’t even put a monitor on him until right at the very last minute.  His precipitous birth saved him from brain damage, and maybe even his life, and so I have NEVER, not even for a second resented the damage it did to me.  However, things were really messed up, and didn’t really get any better when Lem (ten pounds, two ounces) and Rachel (Ten pounds, six ounces) were born.  Also in between there, I had a ruptured appendix that added to some abdominal disarray, and when they did the hysterectomy, they did a hernia repair from the ruptured appendix, but the doctor was unwilling to take on any other repair.  It was so extensive and so likely to be unsuccessful that he didn’t think it would be even worth trying.  And so, for the most part, I just figured that this was how it would be until the day I died.

However, when Dr. Killeen said that he could most certainly fix it, and several other people told me how wonderful a repairman Dr. Killeen was, and several people that I love thought I really, ABSOLUTELY, SHOULD, I decided to just get it done and not think too much about it, not involve too many people in it, just quietly go one day and get it done.  And when Dr. Killeen told me that it was the least painful/least incapacitating operation that I could have, I was really thinking positive thoughts about breezing on through this without so much as a day that was actually missed because of recovery.

I should have known.  Yes, I should have at least read up on things, but I really didn’t want to know anything different than I was thinking.

Last Thursday, they told me that I wasn’t to be at the hospital before 11:15am.  I was a little surprised because they had talked like MAYBE I could be the first surgery at 5:30am.  And with nothing to eat or drink after midnight the night before, the 5:30 business sounded like something that I could really enjoy.  But Certain Man wasn’t so sure. 

“5:30???  That’s awfully early,” he had gulped when I had told him that I was hoping for that slot.  “Why would you want 5:30?”

“Well,” I said, a little uncomfortably because I hadn’t been thinking about how that hour might affect my family, “I just thought it would be good to get the doctor when he was just up and wide awake and ‘fresh!'” (uh.  wrong word for this kind of surgery!).

“Wouldn’t it be better,” said my ever practical spouse, “to have him after he has done a surgery or two and isn’t still sleepy and bleary-eyed?”

I hadn’t thought about that.  “Well, I guess you have a point,” I admitted as meekly as I could muster while still hoping for the early slot.

So, it wasn’t to be, and it turned out that it was better for my morning that way.  We got around and got down to the hospital in good time, and before I knew it, they had me in those lovely duds they give you, and I was waiting.  And waiting.  And waiting.

I determined that I was not going to get myself in a stew.  I was not going to complain.  I was going to relax and enjoy my time waiting and try to make the atmosphere in the “holding pen” as pleasant and optimistic as possible.  When I had waited about an hour, I inquired as to what was the actual scheduled time.

“Well, he’s running behind today.  He had a glitch in one of the surgeries this morning and he’s running behind.  Scheduled time was 12:15. but as you can see, we are already past that. Do you want me to find out how far behind he is?”

“Would you please?” I asked.  “I’m just curious.  No rush.”

Conversations like this went on for some time and it was always that he was “almost ready” or “Opening up a new room so we can get to you more quickly,” or “As soon as he is finished with the current patient, he will be in and then we can start.”  Daniel and I had a good time talking and we enjoyed the time together.  I did not complain, and I didn’t lose my courage.  It was really nice, though, for Dr. Killeen to come in and say that all systems were “go” and we were going to get this over with.  Hopefully once and for all.  It was almost three o’clock when they wheeled me back, and all I could think was that, finally this little matter was going to be over with.  Maybe I would be able to go home the next day.

I found out something.  Dr. Killeen, for all his wonderful qualities, lies to his patients about pain.  For Crying Out Loud! (No, I did not suffer in silence!) I was totally unprepared for what I was in for.  I mean, I had a hysterectomy before, and it was NOTHING like this.  I really thought I was going to lose my mind with the pain.  The thing is, I have a high pain tolerance, but once I am feeling pain, I REALLY feel it, and I was in serious trouble.  I’ve had so many surgeries over the years: ruptured appendix removed under a spinal, an abdominal hernia repair with a screen mesh placement, a hysterectomy, both knees replaced and those big babies, but this pain was such a hopeless, no end in sight kind of thing, and when the doctor came in and told me I would probably have a long night, I was sure I was going to lose my sanity!

“You were a mess!” announced Dr. Killeen cheerfully.  “Wow! You had major damage, terrible scar tissue, just like a grenade went off in there!” He said, “About half way through, I wasn’t sure that I was going to be able to fix it, but I did!  It won’t be like you are 21, but it will be greatly improved!”  Somehow this did not comfort me.  I writhed in agony and thought desperate thoughts.  Dr. Killeen appeared to feel a little sorry that things were so difficult, but didn’t act like he was surprised that I was in such pain.  He took it upon himself to do an examination to make sure nothing was “out of place” which left me even more frantic, and then he patted my knee and left.

Certain Man was there.  He was loving and attentive and tried so hard to help and comfort.  But, unfortudiously, I am the kind of woman who doesn’t like people around when things are so bad.  Plus, he had a cold.  He was coughing and snorting and had a cold sore and a sore throat and was feeling miserable himself.  But he was terribly worried.  I don’t know if he had ever seen me quite so wild with pain.

There was a fold out cot in the room, and he sat there and viewed the situation and thought.  Then he said, “Hon, I think I’m going to spend the night here.”

Please don’t think I’m ungrateful, but that was the last thing I wanted.  I was already worried about him getting enough sleep, and I just couldn’t imagine how it would make me feel any better for him to be there, trying to get awake and take care of things every time I was in trouble.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I half whispered through the breathing exercises I was doing to try to keep my sanity.  “I’m afraid you won’t get any sleep at all.”

“Doesn’t matter about me,” he said stoutly.  “I can be here if you need something.  I’ll just stay right here.”  He thumped the cot appreciatively.  “I’ll be just fine.”

“Daniel, I’m not sure I want you to stay for the night.”

That really bothered him.  “Why not?” he asked indignantly.

“Well, if you are here, I’ll worry about you and that will really keep me awake.”  I didn’t tell him, but I also wanted to be able to say if I was feeling bad, and that makes him want to fix everything for me and it is not always fixable — which would also upset me because it would upset him.

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted.  “It doesn’t matter if I don’t get much sleep.  I’ll just stay right here.”

I didn’t say anything for a little while then, but I pondered greatly how I could encourage him to go home and get the rest he so desperately needed.  Finally, I said, “Daniel, I know I am going to have a bum night.  There is no sense in both of us losing sleep tonight.  The nurses will watch over me, and they will take care of me, and I will be fine.  I think I will rest better if you are home in your bed.  Please don’t think I don’t want you, but I really think we will both sleep better if you are home.”

He was feeling really ragged by then, so he finally decided to go on home. But before he left, I heard him talking to Oldest Daughter on the phone and I realized that they were discussing whether they should ask the church to pray for me.  “She didn’t want people to know,” I heard someone say, “so maybe we shouldn’t say anything.  She might not appreciate it.” 

That got my attention.

“No, PLEASE!” I said, “Please!  I don’t care who knows what, I need people to pray for me!  Please ask people to pray!”  And that was no sooner asked than it was done.  And then Daniel headed home.

The pain would come in waves, and then would grip me in this terrible muscle spasm.  I could feel it begin to get more and more intense until it reached a peak and then it would slowly back off, only to begin again.  In my brain, it somehow seemed connected to the blood pressure cuff that would periodically tighten on my arm, and those compression stockings that would tighten on my leg.  I purposefully relaxed against the onslaught, took deep chest breaths, held them for the count of twelve to fifteen, and then breathed them out slowly.  I prayed, desperate whispered prayers, and then, in the darkness, began to sing.  I knew it was off key, and it sounded really croaky and, well, terrible to me, but I was pretty sure no one was hearing me, and so I sang songs against the pain and against the darkness.  Somewhere along the line, a compassionate nurse came in and said that they were going to make a change in the pain medications, and gave me something for the nausea that was hovering at the helm, and then, along about ten o’clock or so, I was aware that the intensity of the waves of pain was beginning to lose its teeth and I no longer was having the terrible muscle spasms.

And then, all of a sudden, it was eleven o’clock and I had actually slept for a little bit — and the horrible pain was gone!  I still had aches and I certainly knew that I had surgery, and I wasn’t willing to let the pain meds run out, but that blinding, debilitating pain was gone, and I felt the edges of hope curling around my tattered soul.  I still had the IV’s, still had the catheter, but that hopeless, helplessness was gone, and I began to believe that this was going to turn out okay.

The doctor came in at the crack of dawn, and I was awake and feeling so much better.  He said I had to stay another day, but was much encouraged and encouraging.  I slept and walked some and slept some more.  Got a shower, had wonderful visitors, and just had a good day on Saturday.

And yesterday, Daniel brought me home.  He has worked himself silly, and is almost too tired to think straight.  Middle Daughter has things in wonderful order, and I am under lots of orders to sit and rest and recover.  It isn’t easy for me to see people doing things that I really like to do, but I do understand that it is necessary.  Our church family is providing some meals, the “Women in Christian Service” sent me a lovely planter of summer flowers, and I’ve had friends and family visit and call.  It has been an incredible blessing to me. 

But the thing that just never leaves my mind is the thought of how it was when the prayers went up that things turned around for me.  If you were one of those who happened to pray, please accept my heartfelt gratitude.  I cannot begin to thank you enough.  What a gift!  I’ve been so blessed!

Lord Jesus, once again, I offer grateful praise.